A Late Night Visit
by calcaneus
Summary: As Matthew Crawley prepares to leave Downton Abbey after the Season 2 finale, Mary goes to speak with him one last time. This is an exploration of Matthew's feelings for Lavinia and for Mary, and an exploration of what I think could happen next.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: As fair warning, Matthew here is extremely morose and self-absorbed, as he is by Lavinia's gravesite in S02E08. I was frustrated with him over this, and basically wrote this to answer the question "what happens if he never stops being like this, or doesn't stop soon enough?"_

_Many thanks to Cyrillah, who betaed this assiduously and really helped me with characterization and many suggestions. Any remaining problems are my responsibility alone!_

_This is my first Downton Abbey fanfic, so suggestions and con crit is gratefully received!_

Matthew slumped silently as the new valet, Hobbes, helped him out of his dinner jacket and bow tie. It was one of his last nights in Downton before moving back to Manchester, and Matthew had spent it as he had spent most nights since Lavinia's death: enduring strained pleasantries until he could no longer bear them and receiving pitying looks when he then made his excuses and retired early. Most of all, his nights involved the delicate social organization necessary to ensure no intimacy, confidence, or time alone spent with Mary. That had been easy at first, his anger and self-loathing had given him energy and will. As the former had gradually weakened with no lessening of the latter, he now found himself cold, trapped, and utterly, utterly bereft. Not even the necessity of arranging his move to Manchester had provided any respite. He was trawling all of Manchester for somewhere to live, since his mother had optimistically sold the house there.

"You see, it is no longer suitable for the heir apparent of the Earl of Grantham, Matthew," she had argued.

"Heir presumptive, mother," he had sighed. " And I always liked that house."

But that had been during his courtship of Lavinia, and the War, and what thoughts he had of the future had not involved moving Lavinia from all she knew to such an industrial, unfashionable city. So he had let it drop. He sighed heavily at the thought of the life the two of them had planned together, and Mr Hobbes looked up from brushing the jacket.

"Anything I can do, milord?"

Matthew paused briefly in buttoning his pajamas. "Not really, Hobbes. I was just thinking of...wartime. How cruel it is that those years seem so joyous, now, when I was desperate for them to be over at the time."

Mr. Hobbes said little in return, and in short order excused himself to let Matthew sleep. It was little wonder, Matthew knew his thoughts and conversations had been repetitive and circular these last months, and Hobbes was hardly the sympathetic listener that Mr. Bates had been. There was no escaping the bleakness of it; he had thought himself surrounded by death in the trenches, but now he felt death inside him, like the rot in an old tree stump. He had felt himself responsible for all the young men under his command, but rarely felt at fault for their deaths like he did for Lavinia's.

Now he prepared to return to the city, packing up his essentials in Crawley House by day, as by night he was subjected to the extended mourning period precipitated by his leaving Downton. His mother and Cousin Robert had even joined forces, before she left for another refugee return trip, to browbeat him into sleeping the last few days at the great house.

"I hate to think of you alone in Crawley House, now that Molesley's gone," his mother had pleaded, with a sideways glance at Robert.

"Yes, of course Matthew should stay here Cousin Isobel, we shall see little of him soon enough. And with Cora still so weak I could do with some help running the house." So it had been settled neatly, and without his input, as these things so often had after he returned broken from the front.

He sat in bed, hands limp on the bedspread and eyes fixed on the painting hung on the wall opposite, dragged his eyes unwillingly over the details of the winter scene and the Rococo swirls of the oversized frame while fighting insomnia and regrets. Eventually, like most nights, he would fret himself into something that approached sleep. He heard the noises of the house diminish gradually, heard doors shutting somewhere far off and knew most of the inhabitants would soon be asleep.

A quiet knock at the door startled him more than it had any right to, but before he had finished a guarded "Yes? What is it?", Mary had swept herself in through the door in a manner that briefly recalled the Dowager Countess. Her hair was loosely plaited, and she wore only a nightgown. Concern was his first response - had something happened to his mother in France? Was someone ill? He started and pulled aside the bed clothes, preparing to swing his legs out of bed.

"What's wrong?" Her face was impervious, but he stood up anyhow and stood across from her.

Slowly the collected look on her face dropped slightly, as if she had no more idea than Matthew why she was there. She shook her head slightly.

"Nothing, it's- nothing's happened. I mean- I need to- Do you realize how foolish you're being?" she finished with a confidence belied by her uncertain words, and strode to sit in the chair by his bed.

"I'll leave aside the question of how you were planning to learn the workings of the estate from Manchester." Gathering steam, she folded her hands together and stared at him disconcertingly. "You seem to think if you leave, you will be left alone with Lavinia's memory, that what has passed between us will fade away. But I know that it will simply follow you there." Her voice hitched almost imperceptibly. "This isn't something you can run from."

At her every word, Matthew felt his anger return and his nerves grate. "I'm not running, I'm getting on with my life. I've ensured that there's nothing left for me at Downton. You shouldn't feel sorry for me, none of you should. I behaved terribly to you as well as to Lavinia. But you can't stop me going, and I've said what I want to. It's late, and I'm tired." He walked to the door and opened it, ushering her out.

But, of course, she didn't budge. "Shut the door." She sounded almost amused now. "You ought to know better than most how determined I can be, and I'm going until I've said my piece. Properly."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then when Thomas comes up to give you the hot milk that you asked for, I will look extremely disheveled and embarrassed in your bedroom at an unseasonable hour, two weeks before my wedding."

The plot was rapidly slipping away from Matthew. "That I asked for?" he attempted.

"Yes. You had a terrible headache so I took it upon myself to ask Anna to send for him."

"Not Mr Hobbes?"

"No. Because Thomas delights in scandal, and Thomas is about to be told by Papa that his services are no longer required, and Thomas knows the value of information." She was sitting forward in the chair, almost primly, but her hands were very, very still and her gaze was fixed firmly on him.

He saw the picture with a jolt. "So if I won't speak with you, you will make me responsible for engulfing this house in scandal and ruining your marriage?" He hissed the last words, he was so angry at her. She inclined her head in slight acknowledgment.

"This is very conniving, Mary." he allowed his face to express the full brunt of his emotions, but kept his voice in check.

She shrugged. "Perhaps. You'd better decide quickly, I think I heard the back stair door." Her face remained mainly expressionless, except perhaps for some slight redness in her cheeks and a faint hint of triumph.

"Fine," he relented in a hoarse whisper. "We can talk for fifteen minutes."

She smiled then, stood, and deftly strode over to his wardrobe and climbed into it, pulling the doors to behind her as she crouched. In another few seconds, there was a gentle rap on the door.

Thomas' face was characteristically ingratiating. "Sorry that your lordship is feeling unwell. Can I do anything else sir, would you like an extra blanket?" Thomas placed the tray on the bedside table and moved towards the wardrobe.

"No. " Matthew threw up his hand and his first response was an almost bark. "Er, no thank you Thomas, that will be all. Good night."

Looking slightly affronted, the former footman left silently and pulled the door shut behind him.

Matthew stared at the wardrobe gloomily. "I don't know why you risked so much when my mind's made up." His voice sounded plaintive even to his ears. Mary emerged from a sea of dinner jackets and riding clothes, looking surprisingly practiced in the graceful exit of a wardrobe. "I am sorry I was so angry after the funeral," he continued. "It was wrong to speak to you like that when I'm the one to blame. But it's no good. I couldn't possibly stay here, marry you, run Downton when I know who paid the price for it. I'd be too ashamed."

"But you must marry," Mary interjected impatiently. "You have a responsibility to the estate, to father. If you insist on living the life of a hermit, then you leave Downton in the same state it's in now." She saw the expression on his face, and stopped. "But you'll tell me I'm heartless and practical again. Anyway," her voice softened, and she sighed. "I didn't come to argue the same old points. There is a choice you have to make, even if you refuse to see it." She seemed to be reflecting on something that she wasn't saying, her gaze somewhat distant. It was strange, he thought, how she used to be only frank in anger or sadness. He was used to peering beyond the flippancy and sarcasm to see what she felt, but something had changed in her. With a start, he remembered when it had changed, remembered her white face and restless hands as she told him of his paralysis.

"And what is this choice you see me having?" His voice softened with the question.

"First, I need to apologize, Matthew." She twisted her hands together awkwardly, then sat at the foot of his bed. It reminded him of how close she had come when he was first back from the war, and despite himself he was comforted by the memory of her calm lilting voice, her sure, collected movements as she washed his injuries. But that sparked equally vivid memories of someone who tended to him equally devotedly, and his back stiffened and he pulled away slightly.

"What is it, then?"

"I don't know if I ever told you how sorry I am, for the way I treated you when you first proposed. I was so proud, and so angry."

"That was a long time ago - you can't think that any of that matters now? That I don't know you regret those early cruelties?"

Mary shook her head, and her voice was higher and shook slightly. "But I've never told you- I need to say that I'm sorry for ever making you feel I was playing with you. I didn't choose to be married off like a fine broodmare, but I never should have made you compete like I did."

Matthew shrugged. "You are just not the kind to apologize, Mary. I know that well enough now, and I forgave you long ago." He gazed at her beautiful lips, bright red and thin with repressed intensity. "And I accept your apology now. But this isn't why you came tonight."

"No," she admitted, glancing down at her hands. They were carefully composed in her lap. "I told you before, I suppose." She looked up, briefly meeting his eyes before turning slightly. "I don't have to marry Carlisle. I don't want to. But I will, if you won't choose to stop me."

It was as close as Mary Crawley would ever come to pleading with him. He felt desire, impatience, and despair well equally within him. He had made himself so clear by Lavinia's grave, so clear on her deathbed. He had chosen her, but Violet, Lavinia herself, and now Mary had tried so hard to dissuade him. "Whoever marries you will be a lucky, lucky man, Mary," he started, ignoring the unspoken proposal. "But it will not be me. I will not forgive myself for the harm I caused by being unfaithful to Lavinia, and I cannot marry you when I've shown myself to be so dishonourable."

"Do you hope to atone for one mistake by making a series of larger ones?" Her voice was rushed now. "You want me to marry...Richard," the horror in her voice was acidic. "...Or spend my life reliant on your allowance?"

"Mary, marrying Sir Richard was your choice! If he is no longer the husband you want, find another. There was a time you seemed very accomplished in that arena."

She made a noise like the wind had been knocked from her, and Matthew felt immediate remorse. "Well, that's disappointing," she bit off the words with cold fury. "The great middle-class champion of free will is advising me to cozy up to the nearest bag of money."

"I'm not being intentionally cavalier, Mary. But I'm no good to anyone, and I'm certainly not good enough for you. Who's not to say you won't find happiness at the next season?"

She laughed, quietly and bitterly. "If I don't marry him, he'll make sure that my life is over. I'll be a laughing stock." She briefly wiped the sides of her eyes.

"It's a bit late to reconsider, but surely you're not the first aristocrat to renege on an engagement." He let his lips twitch slightly at this, trying to catch her eye.

But she wouldn't look at him. She looked everywhere but his face, and the silence crept up on them suddenly. Matthew thought for a second she was about to end the conversation, to rush off once more just as he was getting his bearings in the discussion.

When she did speak, her cadence was unsteady and her voice raw. "You say I'm too good for you, but the truth is that I made a mistake once far, far greater than a simple kiss. Sir Richard knows about it, and he means to ruin me with it if I break the engagement."

Matthew's brow furrowed. "What kind of mistake?"

A little exclamation escaped Mary's lips, and she turned away slightly. "I let Kemal Pamuk into my bed, when he visited with Evelyn Napier before the war."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note:_

_Again, thanks to Cyrillah for the beta help!_

Matthew felt as though a chasm had opened up beneath him. "Kemal- the diplomat's son? The one who-"

"He died in my room," Mary said, shaking slightly.

"And were you willing?"

Mary's exhalation was shaky. "Somewhat. Eventually. He- was insistent, but I can't say I didn't enjoy..." She trailed off after a darting glance at Matthew's face. "So now you know that it is not you who is unworthy of me, but the other way around. And that I have no other choice but to marry Richard or become an outcast for the rest of my days."

He processed her words but remained silent, the memory of Pamuk's full lips and insouciant smile returned in disturbing clarity. "I didn't think it was still possible," he started, slowly, "but you shock me." He looked for her eyes, but she wouldn't raise them to meet his. "How could you, who seem so controlled..."

A tear made its way down her cheek, but she made no effort to wipe it away. "Because even I cannot be cool all the time." She looked at him then, earnestly and full of despair, and her eyes welled up anew at the expression she found on his face. "I cannot bear you looking that way at me." Then she stood and stepped closer to him, over to his bed and sat beside him, as she had once done at his sickbed.

"Mary," he warned.

"No, listen to me. I know you're angry, and you don't understand. But I also know that you know what it's like to want something badly enough that you lose your self-control." She took his left hand in both of hers, thin and soft. "Lavinia was kind, and sweet, and strong, and giving. She loved you and you, in your way, loved her. And it wasn't enough." She drew his hand up to her, and pressed it between her collarbones so he could feel her pulse, jolting and fast, through the thin fabric of her nightgown. "How could it be anything but cruel, for me to marry Richard and you to marry another sweet young thing to provide you with heirs? When we have so little of ourselves left to give?"

Matthew found his bed suddenly a trap, his body and his heart in revolt against him. He was warm, unsettled, and suddenly horribly aware that the woman he loved, who was getting married to another in a fortnight's time, was pleading with him in his bed. Her hair was wispy and escaping from her plait, her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted. And she had given herself (however much it pained him to think it) to another on a casual whim. And she was crying over the thought of losing him. He looked away, no longer able to bear seeing the desperation written on her face, and made a feeble attempt to draw his hand away.

He felt her resist him and draw up his hand to her lips, kissing the backs of his fingers with lips that could not help but remind him of her ardent kisses on the night Sybil had gone to the count. What he intended as a sigh came out as a husky warning. "Mary, stop."

She held his hand to her lips, before lowering it gently down to the bed. Matthew couldn't tell if it was intentional or no, but his fingers brushed her chest and came to rest on the soft join of her thigh and lower leg. He felt his body respond wildly, and fought to control his reactions. "Mary- this isn't fair."

She looked at him sharply then. "Of course it isn't fair! It isn't fair that I am forever judged by one mistake. It isn't fair that you blame us for the Spanish influenza." She punctuated her points by advancing on him, leaning forwards until the power of her gaze was total. "It isn't fair that you want to watch me marry someone else so that you can feel redeemed. It isn't fair that you leave me no choice between loveless marriage and financial and social ruin." She let out a small humorless laugh that ended in a whimper. "And if all that is going to happen, I suppose I'd prefer to know what real love felt like, even just once."

Of all her points, Matthew fixated on the last one. She was there, trembling before him, the woman he had wanted for all this time, and for once there was no doubt as to her intentions. All he could think of was her beauty, and the sour regret that someone else had already enjoyed it; her touch, already promised to someone else. He was so torn between the desire that flickered on her face, and images of the man who had come before and the man that would come after. But now, just now, there was only himself and her, and the knowledge that nothing would ever again be as right as this.

He pulled her to him, felt her breath on his lips, and claimed her mouth with his.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's note: Oooooohhhh ;). _

_Thanks for Cyrillah for betaing._

It was a demanding kiss, and he covered her lower lip with his a little too hard, ravenous for her. All of him was laced with anger, even this. Especially this. His fingers laced through the hair at the base of her neck and held her close, not that she was retreating. Her moan of longing spurred him on, and he held her hip with his right hand and rubbed his thumb along her nightdress in a way that made her gasp. His mouth grew more insistent, until he flicked his tongue into her mouth and heard a low hum in response.

This was so much more guttural, more uncontrolled than he'd ever imagined it. At university, amongst the law stacks late at night, his more boorish classmates joked about the way in which they would take women. ("That housemaid, she's a fine piece. If she keeps making those eyes at me, I'll have her next week when she comes to change the linen.") He'd always grimaced at the expressions used, always thought that when he lay with a woman there would be none of this urge to take, to control, to own. But here, now, he wanted to possess Mary so that she could never be completely someone else's. He wanted to leave his mark, some intangible message in her skin that Matthew Crawley was once there, and that he had left her indelibly altered. He clawed impatiently at her gown, hiking it up and drawing shudders from her slender form.

Yet, if the act had begun in anger, in possession, in dominance, it could not remain that way for long. For Mary, beautiful white and pink and chestnut Mary, was pressing all her weight onto him and holding his shoulders tightly with both hands.

"Oh Mary," and he spoke her name with reverence now, cradling her temples between his hands and dropping feather-light kisses on her chin, her cheeks, her nose. He knew he should stop, now, while any of their innocence was salvageable. He also knew, by the feverish nature of her touch and the little moans his kisses elicited, that any restraint was his alone. And he wanted her so much, had always wanted her. It was so easy to make the decision by infinitesimal degrees, to let himself be carried along by her hands and her lips, to pull her a little closer with each kiss and to feel her responding in kind, until she was somehow tangled up in the bedclothes, and in him. Her eyes were fixed on his and they widened knowingly as she felt the proof of his desire pressed between them. He stared down at her, eyes dark with longing, and lowered his head to kiss her again.

During the war, he reflected, the men under his command had spoken much more romantically than his university associates, even the ones who found a French maiden willing in every village where they encamped. No man, even a young one, wants to die thinking the last woman to hold him was an opportunistic trifle. So many had promised themselves to the women of the hour, the last exuberance of a dying star. Too many of them had not returned home to regret their spontaneity. And he hadn't either, not until that one beautiful tormented dance in the hall. Did it make it better to know that he was doomed even before that, trapped between watching his love with another or having her torn to pieces at his side? He thought perhaps not, and surrendered himself to this one moment, this one place where outside obligation had been set aside. Briefly, she was his and he hers.

They lay, side by side, noses and cheeks and lips colliding. She grazed the skin at his throat as she unbuttoned his pajamas, as he explored her shoulder blades and the swell of her hips under the thin fabric. There were no words that worked, here. Mary was incoherent with desire to be self-deprecating and he did not dare speak, for to do so would accept the reality of the situation, to require him to put a stop to it. Speechless but not silent, Matthew breathed her in and felt his lower abdomen knot up with the need of her. Hands shaking slightly, he pulled up her nightgown and felt her hips arch against his at the touch of his fingertips. Her legs were warm velvet, so much more powerful than the fantasies he'd occasionally indulged in. He knew there was a choice here to be made, and he made it through inaction; he did not unravel her fingers from his hair; he did not pull her lips from his; he did not refuse her.

And the things she did, and the way she knew him... For she planted hard, biting kisses at his neck and he never imagined wanting that. He felt her breath on his ear and the silken touch of her lips and he never expected that to draw her name, in a wracked sigh, from his throat. "Oh, God. Mary..."

Then suddenly she had pulled at his bedclothes, had exposed his cock from his pajama bottoms. He moaned, gutturally, as he felt her fingers grip him firmly. He knew he could not stand the intensity much longer, and positioned himself over her, knees between hers, and held her forehead against his as their jagged breath exhaled and inhaled in unison. Raising her nightgown the last crucial inches, Matthew gazed at her as his fingertips lightly made contact with the soft place where her legs met, felt wonderment at the wetness of her and how his touch made her buck and whimper.

She smiled, tremulously, and kissed him once more, light and restrained and sweet. It was both permission and request, and so contradictory in its delicacy that Matthew could only smile, joyously, as he sank into her. Below him, cradled in his arms, Mary cried out and threaded her hands through his hair, pulling him to her. He felt the rhythm of his hips increasing, every thrust bringing her somehow closer to him. He felt like liquid fire poured through her, as if he was briefly losing his substance. A loud groan wrenched from him, and he was vaguely aware of Mary reaching up one hand to silence his exclamations. Then there was only his climax, which oscillated as he felt himself empty out into her in inevitable contractions.

After that, reality came back to him in reluctant waves. He found that his arms were shaking slightly at the effort of holding himself above her, and he slowly lowered himself by her side, stroking her face with a thumb and forefinger and kissing her temple softly. He listened to the sound of his breath regaining its normal rhythm, and examined Mary's profile as if attempting to memorize each angle. He knew there was only one thing to be said.

"I love you, Mary." He drew her body close to him, inhaled deeply, and kissed her brow.

Taking hold of his hand, Mary brushed damp hair off his forehead and smiled, almost shyly.

Feeling slightly overheated, Matthew drew the duvet off their legs, tucking one leg over hers and enjoying how they fit together. He looked down and smiled, but the smile was jarred from his face by a tiny detail. He noticed an unusual darkness on the hem of his pajama top, and reached down to touch it, confused. When he drew his hand away there was a thin film of blood on it.

"Mary?" He asked, bewildered. "Mary, why is this...?"

She blushed. "Matthew, surely you are somewhat knowledgeable about what happens when you lie with a woman?" Her tone was deliberate and level.

"I know something of what to expect on a wedding night," he began, faltering before going on. "-I know what happens when a man beds a virgin, the first time." Mary looked somewhat pained at the emphasis in his voice. "But I thought- Pamuk..."

She looked past him slightly. "Kemal Pamuk and I lay together, and we did many of the acts that husband and wife might do together. But not this."

Matthew could not keep the chagrin from his voice. "If I'd known..."

She looked at him sharply, then. "Then what? What are you saying?"

"I could never have-" Guilt overwhelmed him. "Oh, God, what have I done?"

Mary slowly and heavily gathered the covers around her. Her eyes were dark. "Don't you dare regret this."

"How could I not? I've- I've taken advantage of you, when your wedding's is practically tomorrow! I've been weak and lustful, just as I was the night Lavinia fell ill. I've caused misery once again."

She was seething. "Don't act as if I was a wilting beauty that you carried off. I wanted this. I seduced you. And we needn't be miserable."

His laugh was thin and harsh. "How? What do you suggest?"

"Tomorrow, I will break off my engagement. We will announce our own engagement in the Sunday papers. It will be a terrible scandal, and Richard will drag every detail of the Pamuk affair through all the newspapers he owns." She laughed as if she found the prospect energizing. "We will be social pariahs, a stained household. But we will have Downton, have each other, be well settled."

He shook his head slowly. "Is that what you had in mind when you came to see me? To allow you a way to escape your marriage? After I'd made it clear that we had no future?"

She looked shocked. "No- I didn't know what I came for, I just wanted to explain..."

His self-loathing was quickly converting to righteous anger. "You came tonight and confessed your affair with Pamuk. You had years to tell me! You had your choice of the situation and the setting, and you chose to creep in here like a cat-burglar. In the middle of the night, in your bedclothes. Could you be any more transparent?"

She gave a little gasp of outrage. "No, Matthew...how could you think that?"

He pushed the bedclothes aside, rushing to button up his pajama top and pull up his trousers with some semblance of dignity. "I don't know what to think." He could not bear to look at her now. "I need some time, to think."

Her brow wrinkled and she let out an exclamation of impatience. "We don't have the luxury of time. I marry Carlisle in a fortnight. You can't expect me to doom myself to life as a spinster, to sink my one remaining prospect on the hope that you might come round?" she stood and let her nightgown cover her again, then laid a hand on his arm. "it comes down to whether or not you love me."

"Mary, you know I do." His heart was heavy. "But I also still love Lavinia." He struggled hopelessly, weighing the love he'd just shared with the love he had broken, closing his eyes to Mary and seeing Lavinia's white face emblazoned on his eyelids. "I am a man broken open," he emphasized, watching the youthful hope drain one again from her face. "And at the moment I could not love you alone. I could not love you enough." And you still feel like a pawn pushed in one direction or the other, a small voice opined. You still cannot predict Mary's motivations. Even with her heart laid bare to you.

She retracted her hand as if it had been burned, and a desolate fire burned somewhere behind her eyes. "Then you know what I must do. You know what situation you have put me in."

"I just need time," he repeated, numbly.

She didn't answer, just stared at him without mercy until he looked away, then stalked from the room. And in that room, on that night and the ones that came after, Matthew did very little but make a second decision through inaction.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's note: Matthew, sometimes you are utter crap._

_Thanks to Cyrillah for the beta, again._

He hadn't been there for the wedding, had already ensconced himself in Manchester and did not have the energy to play the celebratory cousin. His mother was shocked and disappointed by his refusal to attend, and Robert's voice had been cold when Matthew rang after dinner to express his congratulations. He knew that others, namely Cora and Carlisle, did not have nearly the same reaction. His leaving, after all, greatly reduced the possibility of complications.

After he dropped the telephone back on its holder, he sipped absently at a whiskey. It was done; Mary and Carlisle had travelled by motor to a hotel in Ripon and were leaving the next day for a honeymoon in Canada and the States. It was a sensible decision, given the Continent's war-wracked state, he thought. They were both so very sensible.

He stared over his glass, motionless for several minutes except for the deepening furrow in his brow and the intermittent tremors in his lips, an uncertain shake of his chin. Then he drained the glass, staring at it as if just becoming aware of its presence, and threw it into the fireplace where it shattered on the cold coals.

It was over a year until he saw her next. Matthew visited his mother in Crawley House punctiliously every three weeks, allowing Carlisle to schedule their visits from London on a non-intersecting schedule. Haxby remained a museum for the time being, another box checked on Carlisle's journey to nobility. Matthew heard periodically from Edith that Mary was quite a figure in the London season - she and Carlisle had thrown the surprise social event of the year, a fall garden party with a Guy Fawkes theme. After that one, he even received letters from various London acquaintances, begging for an invitation if one was held next year. He was happy that it all felt so remote, and threw himself into work until his trickle of remaining clients expanded into a steady flow.

Then he received a letter informing him of Edith's engagement, and inviting him to Downton to meet the fellow. It seemed as good a time as any to mend fences, and part of him was curious to see what sort of a match Edith had finally made. All of his cousins had surprised him in the extent to which they had thumbed their noses at the carefully circumscribed path laid for them. So he got the morning train to Ripon, and after a late tea walked up to the house.

He was almost expecting to find Mary where he did, at the bench overlooking the road from the village. It had been a warm fall, and she was wearing a dress that Matthew could recognize now as one from the summer fashions. There was an older woman with her whom Matthew did not recognize, and as they noticed him approach she stood and passed the baby in her arms to Mary, before curtsying slightly and heading off in the direction of the house. Mary looked down in complete absorption until he had left the path and stood, hat in his hands, in front of the bench.

Then her eyes flicked up and she gave him a smile that only faintly reached her eyes. "Hello Matthew." Her gaze had a powerful effect, he had forgotten how piercing her eyes were. Now, though there was an unfocused, softer light to them. "It's been a long time. Will you sit?"

"Of course." He willed himself forward and took a seat on the bench. The infant was wrapped in what seemed like yards of lace and cotton, so there was barely room for Matthew on the far side. "Can we be introduced?"

She pulled the baby against her lap, until its slightly lolling head was faced at Matthew. Bright blue eyes stared at him as the baby chewed on one hand consideringly. Matthew found her gaze hard to meet. "Jill, this is your cousin Matthew. Fourth cousin once removed, if Edith's genealogy is to be believed." The quantification of their familial connection, distant and clinical, was intended as a rebuke.

He looked at her, pleading silently for some intimacy and kindness he knew he didn't deserve. Her jaw was just slightly tight and her smile held for a fraction longer than was natural. She was being so cordial, holding so much back. He dropped his eyes once again. "Jill. Interesting name."

Mary's eyes sparkled then, the artifice less necessary. "Yes. Guess where we got it from."

His heart wrenched at the natural way in which she spoke of herself and Carlisle. "It wouldn't be from that terribly modern book? By Wodehouse?"

Her smile was sardonic, but she made a show of appearing impressed. "You're surprisingly au courant with literature for an overworked solicitor."

"Mother filled me in," he admitted. "I think she approved." he reached out gingerly, patting the baby's swaddling with a faint awe. He felt like an awkward schoolboy being ushered into the nursery to see his new brother or sister. It was a completely fabricated feeling, he knew. There had only ever been him.

"She's beautiful." His wavering voice embarrassed him.

"She takes after her mother," she replied briskly, her flippancy and false vanity papering over the emotion they had both heard in his voice.

He felt bereft, and it made him terribly reckless. "And what does she take from her father?"

The glance that she returned was a warning. "She has Richard's mouth, some people say. She perseveres." A small distracted smile gathered. "And she'll scream for hours until she gets what she wants."

"And you're sure Carlisle is...there's no chance...?" He didn't dare finish the question.

"None at all." She smiled so broadly it was vicious. "So you shouldn't worry on that score." She looked down at Jill, who had grown restless. "It's time for her feeding. I'll see you at dinner."

She scooped up the baby with practiced ease, then stood, ignoring the hand that he offered her. "Motherhood in our time is something that happens to women, Matthew." She stood half turned away from him, Jill staring with wide eyes at Matthew over Mary's shoulder. "Fatherhood is something you choose." He did not stop watching them until they disappeared around the side of the house. For September, it felt unseasonably cold.


End file.
